The Last Thought I'm Wasting On You
by tii-chan17
Summary: The (in)significance of emotion to Near. Not really a song fic, but inspired by Evanescence's The Last Song I'm Wasting On You.


**A/N: Hey, guess what?! I HAVEN'T DIED! Yay, right? XD**

**Yeah, so sorry about my...extended disappearance, but I've been working on a mahoosive multi-chaptered fic that's taking forever. You want details, go read the Upcoming Fics section in my Profile. :)  
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**So, I actually have no idea why I wrote this, apart from the fact that I heard Evanescence's song The Last Song I'm Wasting On You, got really inspired and stuff, and this was produced. It's not a song fic, but it does match the song...I guess...? Iunno. Just listen to it.  
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**One final message: if you're a yaoi fan, feel free to imagine this as a romance. If you're not, feel free not to. If you're neither, make up whatever the hell you like. This fic is supposed to be ambiguous and stuff - believe it or not, the author isn't supposed to do all the work! You lot have to make up half the story too. Have fun with that.  
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**Please read, enjoy, and review! Flame, and you will be incinerated. :)  
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**Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note or any of its characters. Credit to Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata. Evanescence and/or The Last Song I'm Wasting On You isn't mine either, unfortunately, so don't try to sue me. I have no money... *cries***

* * *

The Last Thought I'm Wasting On You

I am sitting on the damp ground, contemplating a group of daisies in front of me. I am not certain as to exactly how I got here, but I remember telling Commander Rester and Halle that I was going for a walk.

I suppose their surprised faces were justified.

Daisies have never been among my favourite flowers (though I admittedly have none anyway), and I wonder why I am so fascinated by these. They are sadly below average in quality; most are missing significant amounts of petals, and those that remain are decidedly limp. They must be nearing the end of their brief lives.

There is one flower that is separate from the group, a good few centimetres away from its companions. I debate over whether it is there because it wishes to be, or because it was forced.

Remembering the fact that flowers do not ostracise each other knowingly, and that they do not have brains, I dismiss this thought swiftly. I still stare at the solitary daisy, which alone seems to have all its petals, though it does seem rather wilted. The particular shade of its centre is very reminiscent.

* * *

_I was just tipping over my completed jigsaw to start over when Roger walked in behind me. I knew it was he, as he immediately announced in his distinctive voice, "Everyone, we have a new resident. Please welcome Mello."_

_I turned in curiosity to see the owner of such an unusual name, though I suppose I was not one to talk._

_Mello was small, not as small as I, but slimmer. His face was still rounded from childhood, but his skin was sickly pale and he appeared to have slept very badly for a very long time. His hair was a flaxen gold, falling just past his chin and over his eyes, which were down-turned in what could have been bashfulness, or fear._

_He looked up then, and I could feel my mind jolt in surprise. His eyes were neither embarrassed nor afraid; they were completely blank, bottomless pits of stoicism. They were familiar, and I mentally replaced ice blue with black and gold with white, and saw myself staring back at the children of Wammy's House. He was like me._

_That was the closest feeling to happiness I had ever experienced since arriving at Wammy's._

_Linda stepped forward with a chain of daisies, and Mello stepped back. She laughed and placed it around his neck anyway. They went well with his hair._

"_Welcome, Mello! You'll be very happy here!" she exclaimed._

_Mello did not reply, and that time, he did look uncomfortable._

_Later, when most of the other children had gone to their rooms or outside, I gathered my courage and walked up to Mello, who was sitting silently in the corner, staring at the skirting board. He did not look up as I approached._

"_Hello," I said quietly, not wanting to startle him in case he hadn't realised I was there._

_He did not react in the slightest, so I continued._

"_My name is Near."_

_Again, no reaction._

_I refused to lose heart and drew in another breath. Before I could speak, however, Mello said the first words I ever heard him say._

"_What do you want?" he said._

_Blinking, I replied, "I was hoping to talk, seeing as Mello is new here, and –"_

_Mello was suddenly towering over me, and I was on the floor, my hands grazed and my hip stinging from its harsh collision with the floorboards. Mello's glare was so full of hate that I was taken aback._

"_Like I'd ever talk to an albino freak like you!" he spat, and stormed away._

_I stayed on the floor, bruised and upset, staring after him. The minute flame of hope, or happiness, or whatever it was had vanished. I felt unbearable melancholy._

_And from that moment, Mello became the only person who had ever been able to allow me to feel emotion._

_The sadness stayed with me._

* * *

_In the years that followed, I often assumed I hated Mello as much as Mello hated me. However, as I got older, I eventually realised I would never wish for him to leave, foolish and masochistic though it may have seemed._

_He beat me regularly, for reasons I neither understood nor wanted to understand. It was a phenomenon of nature, like the grass, or the rain. If I imagined his screams and punches as soft words and comforting embraces it was bearable. Mello found my lack of response intolerable, and the beatings got worse. It was a price worth paying, though, as it meant I could feel the thrill of apprehension when I spotted Mello advancing on me. The satisfaction of that alone was enough to get me through the pain that followed._

_Life continued as such for another few, repetitive years, each day as predictable as the last._

_Until, one morning, I came down to breakfast to find my life had ended._

_Instead of one corner of the room being full of Mello's shouts and emotion and laughter, there was a solitary empty table. Mello's companion Matt was not there either._

_It didn't take me long to reach the conclusion that Mello had finally left Wammy's House, but it took me far longer to accept it. It was not just the disappearance of two housemates that I had to come to terms with; my ability to feel any emotion other than pain and loss had disappeared with them._

_I left soon after, frustrated with the shadows of Mello that kept appearing in the corner of my eye, only to vanish when I turned to look properly.  
_

* * *

_Mello came to visit me once, years later, his face hardened and scarred almost beyond recognition. I would have known him anywhere. The thrill of having a gun held to my head and actually feeling some fear of the hate-filled eyes behind the trigger was both invaluable and unforgettable._

_When he left again, the feeling of loss, too, was unforgettable, but altogether far too familiar. I didn't realise that would be the last time I would ever feel anything remotely alive again, however, and allowed myself a small shard of hope that he would one day return._

_On the twenty-sixth of January, 2010, I did not need Halle to tell me Mello was dead. The sudden, excruciating absence of my heart was sufficient._

_It seemed to me as if all light in the world has been extinguished.  
_

* * *

I suppose one could say I used to be angry at Mello for giving me that one, sweet taste of emotion before ripping it away from me, but I now see no purpose in such feelings. They were reserved for Mello, and Mello alone, and now they are just a waste of energy and thinking ability, both of which Mello seemed to have in abundance. In addition, I have the feeling Mello would be apoplectic if I ever displayed emotion to anyone other than him, and I am certain I would feel the flames of his wrath from beyond the grave.

And so, this is the last time I shall allow myself to feel grief for him, whose life ended so abruptly and needlessly; the last time I shall allow myself to feel gratitude for the iotas of feeling he gave me, and the last time I shall allow myself to feel longing for more.

It is an anticlimax, it is true, but my life was doomed to be so as soon as Mello pushed me away that first time. I suppose Mello would be furious at me for finally closing off to him completely, so not even he will be able to invoke emotion in me. He is no longer omnipotent. I admit the thoughts give me some satisfaction: why should I aim to please a dead man, even if my very soul died with him?

And so, as I stand and walk away from the sparse patch of daisies that was previously Mello's substitute grave, I allow myself one last mental glimpse of Mello's face – alive with fire and fury – and one last flicker of content.

Then, I retreat into my shell and feel no more.

* * *

**A/N: *bawls* I'm sad now. What have I written?! O_O I'm usually the happy ending type...this thing didn't even have ANY happy moments...I don't think. It might have some for you, I dunno. I'm not part of your subconcious. OR AM I?! Lol...**

**So, it might be a while until you hear from me again, but please bear with me, and I'll try my best to make the wait worth it! Thank you for reading!  
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**Lovies, tii-chan17  
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